The Round-tower of the Heart
by OxfordKivrin
Summary: Foyle Flashback. A family moment, late summer, 1920.


It was getting on for five o'clock when Christopher let himself in through the kitchen door. He left his waders and his rain-soaked hat neatly on the mat, put the cleaned fish on a plate on the cooker, and washed his hands thoroughly. He could hear the gramophone upstairs playing one of Rosalind's favorite Debussy piano preludes. Quietly, he followed the music up to the studio.

Rosalind had her stool and easel by the window to catch all the watery daylight. Her soft hair was pulled back loosely into a plait, with a few wisps hanging loose at the left side where Andrew liked to play with it when she held him. She wore a neat smock over the dark-blue dress she often wore at home because Christopher liked how the length set off her ankles and the color favored her creamy skin. Next to her on the floor Andrew sat in the middle of a paint-stained sheet, wearing a worn-out man's shirt turned backwards as a smock, patting seriously at a piece of butcher's paper. Christopher smiled to see Rosalind's look of concentration echoed on their son's smaller, rounder face. He leaned against the doorjamb to watch them, but an unwary movement made a board creak, and both looked up.

"Daddy!" Andrew raised his paint-covered hands. "Daddy, An _help!_ An help Mummy!"

"I see! Very kind of you."

"Very kind," Andrew echoed, turning back to his paintbox. "Very kind, very kind."

"Not _too_ helpful, I hope?" Christopher said softly as he came to kiss Rosalind.

She laid her brush aside and drew him down to her. "Only a few near misses. How was the river?"

"Not bad. Caught enough for supper. I've cleaned them already." He squeezed her shoulder, smiling in apology and gratitude for the hours alone. "Feel like a new man."

"I'm glad. You look better." She touched his cheek, then laid a finger between his brows and traced a line across his forehead. Then she nodded at Andrew. "Could you tidy him, please, while you get changed yourself, and I'll get his tea?"

"Of course." He turned his head to kiss her wrist. "Can keep on here, if you like, and let me feed him. Make the most of the light."

"That would be lovely, thank you. I'm nearly done with this."

"At An, Daddy! At An, At An!" Andrew demanded.

He crouched down beside Andrew. "What is it, son, show… oh, careful!" He caught the paintbox as Andrew waved it. "That's for art, not throwing."

"_Not_ throw!" Andrew glowered, his lower lip protruding dangerously.

"You've been such a help to Mummy this afternoon; d'you think you could help Daddy a bit now? Help me get washed up and change my clothes?"

Andrew frowned skeptically.

"Could put your boat from Uncle Charles in the bath," Christopher offered.

"Boat! Mine boat!"

He nodded. "Your boat."

Andrew dropped the paintbox, laid his chubby palms flat on his artwork and pushed himself up, rear-end first as usual. "Mine boat!"

"Let's go find it, hm?" Christopher used Andrew's smock to wipe his hands, then peeled it off him and picked him up. "First, can you say 'thank you, Mummy' for a nice afternoon?"

"Thank Mummy."

Rosalind smiled over her canvas. "You're welcome, darling." Her eyes moved to Christopher's, and the smile brightened a little more, just for him.

He ducked his head, smiling in return. "Nicely done, Andrew. Now, let's see, is your boat behind the curtain…? Behind the door…?"

Andrew giggled and pounded on his shoulder with one hand, pointing towards the hall with the other.

"Under the carpet?" Christopher turned back a corner of the hall carpet with his toe.

"No!"

"No, are you sure?"

"Too bigger!"

"Too big? Well, maybe. In the airing cupboard, then?"

Andrew laughed louder, squirming in his arms to point more urgently towards the bathroom. Behind them, Rosalind laughed as well, in the same notes but a lower register, and Christopher held Andrew tight against a sudden almost painful warmth in his chest. _The case is over. The _war_ is over. _He pressed his lips into Andrew's fine, silky curls. _This is real. Remember this,_ he thought. _Remember._

FIN

* * *

NOTES:

The title is from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "The Children's Hour."


End file.
